


Avignon

by butnotdrowning, snarkbunny



Series: Resistance [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dystopia, Gen, HP: EWE, Neville is a nice guy though, No pairings so far, Not Epilogue Compliant, Possible minor character deaths, Post - Deathly Hallows, Post-Hogwarts, but then again, but you never know, eventually, if dystopia wasn't a hint, probably even less fluff, probably no smut, so it's not all bad, you never know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:43:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1249792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butnotdrowning/pseuds/butnotdrowning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkbunny/pseuds/snarkbunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voldemort is dead, and Wizarding Britain is controlled by the totalitarian Umbridge Ministry. The resistance, mainly centered around our heroes from the books (with some additions and some changes), is working against overpowering odds to overthrow the government. Think a reversed French revolution meets Cold War-era Berlin. With magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sur le Pont d'Avignon

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [these amazing posters](http://pragmatique.tumblr.com/tagged/Death_Eater_Propaganda) by pragmatique/Lady Snark (formerly pink-martini).
> 
> This story is chronological, but we will post retrospective standalones as we progress. We have planned out a trilogy (so far), but make no promises to limit ourselves at any point.
> 
> Not brit-picked, con-crit very welcome.

The mist rises from the river like a clammy hand, mingling with a frigid sideways drizzle. From my position, squeezed in under the bridge and wrapped in a frankly mouldy blanket, the outlook could not be much grimmer. Of course, the Ministry could have caught on a bit quicker and thrown me in with my father, but this perspective is not helping me achieve today’s goal: Feeling as sorry for myself as humanly possible.

There is not much else to do anyway, at least until Granger returns with new orders. She was not pleased to be saddled with my presence, and in the circumstances, I can hardly blame her. My old feeling of self-importance has been largely drained out of me, but I can’t deny I was a good asset before I had to run.

\---

When I wake up again, the blanket is moist and my hair is plastered to my forehead, and Granger is staring down at me, her face unreadable. She used to be transparent, easy to read. Not anymore. Growing up looks good on her, even when she is soaking wet, no doubt from running around, organising things. Her hair is visibly curling up from the humidity, but it is no longer a frizzy bush, and her wet pullover clings to her body. Even so, I don’t even feel a stirring of interest, and I’m happy about that at least. The memory of her small fist hitting my face is still mortifying, years later. I slick my hair back and pop my collar nevertheless.

Less self-important, yes. Less vain? Probably not.

I have no idea how long it has been, neither since she left nor since she came back. There is no change in the light, but the fog, mist and rain conspire to make it seem like perpetual early evening. The chill is now deep-set in me, and I absently wonder if I’ll ever thaw again. No matter, Granger is visibly impatient, and I get up with creaking limbs, stiff from sleep and cold.

We walk hand in hand through the city, faking young love in the rain for the benefit of any unseen observers. She stops at one point, asking an old woman for her bag with muttered codewords, and is answered in rapid French. The bilingual conversation lasts a few minutes, my gaze fastened adoringly on Granger, and yet I am sure she can see my confusion.

Some corners and puddled streets later, we are huddled in a doorway, Granger fishing around in the large, worn duffel bag I hold out for her, searching for a Muggle key. When we finally reach my new bolt hole, through one of two doors at the very top of the staircase, the best that can be said for it is that it is dryer than outside.

Dropping my satchel at my feet, I squint in the gloom, routinely sniffing for rot, mould and lingering magic. Granger speaks out loud for the first time since hurtling us out of London, and the reason for her persistent near-silence is obvious. Her voice is scratchy and hoarse, lower in register than is natural for her, and it sounds painful.

“All right, from the beginning, Malfoy”, she says, and I wince at both her voice and my own name. We both ignore my reaction, and I start with my noticing Yaxley’s guarded attention, using my hard-learned, untraceable legilimency as he gradually connected the dots and started suspecting me. It took him several weeks to figure it out completely, and my slipped-in hints to be careful, tell nobody gave me time to inform Granger through the usual channels, gather up all the information I could get my clammy little hands on, and prepare for the next chapter of my existence. I wouldn’t go so far as to call this an actual life.

I shrug off my too thin jacket, starting to empty the inside pocket of copied files, blank visas and general clutter gathered over the last couple of weeks, during which I’d duplicated anything remotely useful. It takes a while, as the pocket has been invisibly expanded courtesy of Granger herself. I really had no idea of how much I’d stuffed in there until it is stacked around the room in piles. At least some of it must be of use, I assume.

Meanwhile, Granger has fished out a miniaturised pensieve from her ever-present beaded bag ( _It makes me look harmless_ , she’d told me when I laughed at it at some point early in my Ministry career), and she is engorging it with efficient movements, placing it on the floor. At her wordless command, I start copying out my memories since we last met, compressing the originals in my head simultaneously. It makes it easier to find important details in a hurry, but it affects dreams to a degree some find disturbing. I don’t much care; my mind is a bit disturbing anyway.

While Granger dives into my memories, I start sorting the files, marking them with names and places as I go. The entire right wall is covered by empty bookshelves, suspiciously clean compared to the rest of this hovel. I put the stack of blank visas in a (very convenient) box, and pile the miscellanea in a corner.

Granger is still immersed. Even at her high-speed viewing, four weeks and a bit will take some time. I look around the flat again. A simple cleaning spell turns up from a recess in my mind, and I apply it mercilessly to the floor, walls and ceiling, revealing dark wooden floors, white walls and small windows close to the floor. The ceiling is sloped, and there is some kind of fabric contraption hanging about halfway up the wall. I clean that, too, for good measure, and turn to the kitchen, such as it is. It’s basic, but it will do. It also has the sharp, but pleasant tang of Granger’s magic, and it is clean, like the bookshelves.

There is not much in the way of edibles, but there are assorted mugs, a brown teapot and a kettle, and a box of Granger’s favourite Assam loose-leaf blend. My short forays into the Muggle world have presented me with the guilty pleasure of PG Tips, a preference that made Granger cry with laughter a few years back. She has not had the foresight to provide, though, and I doubt there will be anything as English as PG Tips and digestives here in the arse end of Nowhere, France. I make do with Granger’s tea and settle on the floor to wait her out.

\---

I am lying on my stomach, poking at my cold tea with my wand and staring at the rain, when an indrawn breath announces her presence back in the waking world. She lifts an eyebrow at the teapot by my side, and I wordlessly get up to make a fresh pot. At this rate, I will need to go shopping. Or possibly stealing, as my access to funds is limited for the time being.

When I am settled back on the floor, pot and mugs hovering beside me, she starts outlining the short-term plans in a whisper, presumably to avoid straining her voice. I find I am still able to be curious, and hope she will tell me what has happened before she leaves.

For now, the plan is limited: Lay low, read all the files, sort through and read a new pile of files. It’s best if I stay inside the flat for a few days. She accios an impressive stack from her tiny bag, pours the tea, and tells me to make a list of what I’ll need for the coming week.

While I twist my brain into knots to find out what I’ll need, she drinks her tea serenely and tells of her encounter with the Muggleborn Registration officers who came to a planned recruiting meeting accompanied by Hit Wizards. She took a modified Crucio to the throat while shielding the disapparating recruits, but nevertheless managed to whisk away, leaving one of the HWs turned inside out and the rest stupefied. Probably. She seems a bit hazy on the details, and I won’t pry further.

As she dries and puts on her jacket, she gives me an appraising look, but does not comment. List in hand, she disappears down the stairs, leaving me with an untidy pile of files and an urge to sort them properly. I shake my head to rid myself of her subtle influence and opt to explore the flat instead.

This, as it turns out, takes me less than two minutes. There’s a large cupboard and a dresser crammed into the narrow hallway, and a small bathroom painted in a pale green reminiscent of hospitals and muggle swimming pools. An aggressive cleaning spell leaves the bathroom sparkling and me with no choice but to start on the files.

They are mostly handwritten in Granger’s tidy hand on thin muggle paper, and they are already tagged with names and places the way she taught me. Sorting them in the shelves along with the others is quick work, and as I step back, I get an inkling of what she wants me to do. This already looks like a quite respectable archive of ministry employees and their sympathies and intermingling connections.

I am sufficiently lost in thought when I hear footsteps on the stairs that I barely have time for a disillusion charm before Granger steps back in, shopping in hand. In the few seconds before I let the charm dissolve, I can see shock, anger and disappointment in quick succession before her face is blank again, and I don't think most would have seen even that. When the charm is gone, however, and I step away from the wall, her smile is immediate and, for some reason, satisfied.

“You thought I'd run off on you, did you, Granger?” I ask, with a hint of vintage Malfoy mockery in my voice.

Her smile turns slightly different, not looking like the old Granger at all, but she merely hands over two of the shopping bags, and we put the groceries away in silence.

She digs out a box from the cupboard in the hallway and picks out a selection of miniature furniture: a heavily built table in dark wood, painted and mismatched kitchen chairs, a moss coloured, squishy sofa, and a couple of armchairs in brown velvet. Placing them around the room with practiced ease, she proceeds to enlarge them with quick waves of her wand, and suddenly, the hovel is welcoming and comfortable. The evening has turned late without my noticing, and the searchlight beams spill stripes of light across the floor.

“Use magic sparingly for now”, she whispers, clearly hoping I am able to function like a human being without poking my wand about every five minutes.

“The area is under general surveillance, and any activity spikes will be looked into,” she continues. “I'll have to move some people to keep the levels steady while you're here.”

My eyebrows rise involuntarily at her casual mention of moving people, but I will let her explain if and when it suits her.

“I'm crashing here tonight. I'm going away for some days tomorrow morning - when I'm back, we discuss how we'll move forwards.”

She really seems exhausted when I look beyond her facade, and after all, it's not really my flat.

“Of course,” I reply. “Would you like an armchair?”

She gazes upwards to the contraption, and something pops into place in my mind.

“A ... hammock?” I ask.

“More of a nest,” she replies, unceremoniously climbing up a ladder I had failed to notice.

I follow her, stripping off my trousers, shirt and socks on the way up, more than ready to curl up and sleep, or preferably, die. Granger tosses her jeans and pullover over the edge as I reach the top, and we are suddenly a matching pair, me in black boxers and white vest, her in black panties and white camisole. I fight down an urge to giggle, but she merely raises one eyebrow, and proceeds to curls up in a bundle of blankets and duvets. The nest is surprisingly comfortable, and I feel relaxed and safe for the first time in recent memory.

I don't even dream.


	2. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco wakes up. Pretty much what it says on the tin.

I wake with an unfamiliar feeling of warm contentment, and, surprisingly, a foot in my mouth. Or at least on my face.

During the night, one or both of us have twisted and turned, and my leg is trapped in Granger's hair, which seems to have evolved into a separate life form during the night. The lady in question lies on her back, snoring in an unladylike manner, and has, as mentioned, placed her foot on my face. This is not how I imagined a good working relationship in the resistance movement.

“Granger.”

There is no response, although she stops snoring.

“Granger, will you kindly unhand me? And maybe unfoot as well?” I try for sarcasm, but it is really too early for me to pull it off, and her only response is a muffled noise as she attempts to curl back up. This, however, pulls her hair, and she wakes with a curse on her lips, voice still harsh.

She sits up, and I oblige by lifting my leg to her shoulder, flopping back on a pile of blankets. As she untangles her hair, muttering, I stretch and try to kick my brain into gear. Waking up tied to Granger is surprisingly un-awkward.

“How good are you with breakfast?” I ask, hoping to avoid playing host.

“Not a chance,” she whispers. “I’ll grab first shower, you make the tea, and then we’ll see about food.”

Before I have a chance to argue, she vaults over the edge of the nest, landing on the floor below with hardly a thump.

\---

When she joins me at the table, the tea is ready and I have set up my potions kit on the countertop. The copper saucepan will do for a cauldron.

“May I?” I ask, noting her slight wariness as she understands what I want to do. “It will be easier with contact,” I explain as I stand up. She hops on to the table, closing her eyes as she focuses on the Hit Wizard incident. I touch my forehead to hers, and I am as gentle as possible as I slip into her mind.

Her focus truly is unparallelled. The memory is immediately available, bright as if it was moments ago, not a trace of fog or blurriness. I recognise the man - Avery - from encounters in the ministry, and remember his modifications to the curse. This should be relatively easy to cure, and will require no dubious ingredients. She doesn’t even register her own shield charm as it goes up behind her the instant he raises his wand. I try to slip out before the memory plays out, but she holds me in place. I push down a flare of panic, she shouldn’t be able to feel me there, and nobody can really trap me like this, but I stop myself before I rip the memory as I realise she wants me to see. It really is impressive, and quite horrible, but she is clearly aware of how to tap into her power. She doesn’t even speak the countercurse aloud, but Avery’s intestines wrap out of him, twisting around him as he turns in on himself. Weirdly, as she swipes her wand at the others and they fold gracefully to the floor, the intestines tie themselves into a bow, topping the man-package neatly. She twirls on the spot, disapparating, and lets me go from her mind. The power of her Stupefy may have permanently maimed some of them, but there is no way to know.

She avoids my eyes as I straighten, clearly uncomfortable. It is after all a very private thing to touch minds, and although she understands the necessity, she will want to raise her barriers in peace. I head for the shower.

\---

The table is set, bacon and eggs in a skillet, and a baguette sliced lengthwise when I come back. Granger is still avoiding my eyes, and I belatedly realise the reason for her discomfort.

"Did you think me naive?" I ask, her gaze snapping up. "I know what we do. You did what the situation required. I have probably killed more people with the stroke of a quill than you ever have. I also did what I had to do."

"I know," she whispers, some of the spark back in her eyes, "and I needed someone else to see. But I thought you might find the more hands-on approach … unappetising."

My laughter surprises myself, and I confess to be intrigued by the bow. Her grin is a scary thing.

"I didn't intend to wrap him up like that, I just wanted to be tidy."

The explanation is both horrid and funny, and I shake my head as I pile food on my plate.

"The potion will take a few days to brew, but recovery should be immediate," I tell her between mouthfuls. I really am starving, and Granger is a decent cook. "I have all the ingredients in my kit, but speak as little as possible, and only at a whisper, in the meantime. We might avoid damage to your voice box entirely."

She nods and holds up four fingers to indicate how long the will be gone. I nod back and sip my tea.

She sits quietly for a while, her mind clearly occupied. I don't mind; her company is relaxing after the frantic weeks behind me.

After another cup of tea, she straightens in her seat, cocking her head. She touches her forehead and motions to mine, the question clear in her eyes.

"You want to try and communicate wordlessly? Are you a legilimens?" I ask, and she nods and then shakes her head. One question at a time, then. I am pleased at her easy obedience to my medical advice, but mind-to-mind communication is not easy and requires a lot of trust. I am not sure I trust her that much, although I am the one in control, and I am certainly not sure she should trust me.

She waves her hand to catch my attention, touches two fingers to her clavicle, then to her forehead again, and holds her other hand up to indicate stop.

"Occlumency?" I ask, and she wiggles her hand. A bit, I understand.

I inhale deeply through my nose, letting my nervousness shine through.

"All right," I say with an exhale. This is more than I bargained for the first morning out of deep cover. "Sit on the couch, clear your mind, and try to close off anything you don't want me to know." Her quirked half-smile as she rises speaks volumes. "Approximately everything, yes, I know." She tries to hold in her giggle, and fails spectacularly.

I give her a push towards the couch, and start cleaning up after breakfast as she focuses. I'll give her ten minutes.

\---

I have no idea how to clean the dishes without magic. Nothing comes to mind as I stare at them either, so this is clearly not a common issue in the wizarding world. I don't know how much magic I can do, so I'd rather save it for something worthwhile.

In the end, I compromise on piling them in the sink, set my makeshift cauldron to boil, and chop the ingredients for the initial soak. When the steaming saucepan is put aside to cool, I turn to Granger, who is now completely calm, sitting crosslegged on the sofa.

As I sit down next to her, she instinctively turns towards me, eyes clear and serene. Okay then.

Facing her, I lift my hand to her cheek, and she copies me. I push carefully forwards, not wanting to spook her, and the first thing I feel is barely-reigned-in impatience. I let her feel my amusement, and her surprise at my presence is almost tangible. _Alright there, Granger_ , I ask wordlessly, and I can feel her rush at something new to learn, to experience.

I register that her trust in me is guarded, which is reassuring. She needs to be more cautious than she has been with me this far. I poke around carefully for a bit, feeling her barriers. They are no match for me if I want to use force, but they are subtle, and a less skilled legilimens would overlook their existence and the amount of information buried underneath. Good enough. I let her feel my approval, and in return, her curiosity at what I am doing, and how, twists around the tendrils of my mind currently immersed in hers. I try asking her more questions, but her response is limited to fleeting images and sensations. I pull back before she gets frustrated.

"You need to focus on forming words in your mind", I tell her. "When you are more experienced, you will be able to communicate concepts without words, and that will probably prove efficient."

She nods, apparently satisfied for now.

\---

She shows me how to do the dishes (water and soap, honestly, I should have figured that out) and then flops down on the couch again, writing with a muggle pencil on a piece of parchment. I check on the potion, and the ingredients have separated into layers as they should. The saucepan is an adequate substitute. I stir the layers back together with a wooden spoon and carefully clean it afterwards.

I busy myself with household chores for a while, hanging up the towels to dry, turning the blankets and duvets in the nest, finding a basket for the dirty laundry. I wipe off the countertop and the table. I empty out my satchel, fold my clothes and put them in the dresser, hang my shirts in the cupboard. Granger is still on the couch, chewing on her pencil. I am not used to prolonged company and am starting to get edgy. I still don’t want to disturb her, so I empty out the duffel bag as well, finding muggle clothing in my size as well as a solid pile of books, both muggle and magical in origin. At least I will be entertained during my house arrest.

When I start investigating the boxes in the cupboard, she gets up. She gathers her things and hands me the parchment, then holds up four fingers again, gives a little wave and is out the door. 


	3. Emerging Patterns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco makes some discoveries

I celebrate my solitude by making a fresh pot of tea, French Earl Grey this time. Despite the quietness of her presence, the flat seems emptier without Granger, a fact I have mixed feelings about. I scan the bookshelves while sipping my tea, and decide to start with the Ministry files. Might as well get the boring bits out of the way. I’ll save the boxes for later.

The files turn out to be far from boring. Although most of the content originates with me, reading them compiled makes the real power structure behind the façade a lot clearer, and I get a quiet rush from the awareness that I am probably the only person who knows about these patterns. I start drawing a chart on the back wall with a Sharpie from Granger's duffel bag.

I remember the purging of the Ministry all too well. After all, that's how I got in.

\---

In the confused days after Potter and Longbottom disposed of Old Snakeface, their side was apparently too high on victory to grasp the power, whereas the people already in place proved eager to keep their hold on the wizarding world.

After my parents and I slunk off, Potter found it in himself to return my wand, and turned up at the manor unannounced, Weasley and Granger in tow. The Aurors coming for my father had their lucky day, as they could grab The Boy Who Lived To Gape Like A Fish without a smidgen of resistance. Hippie that he is, he seemed to have forgotten his status as Undesirable Number One, and it was only Granger's fast spellwork and a slightly too forceful bit of Legilimency on my part that saved her and Weasley from being brought in as well. The Aurors were never quite the same again.

Weasley had to be physically restrained by my mother in order to allow Granger and myself the opportunity for a conversation, but when he calmed down, he sensibly bowed to Granger's superior intellect. Granted, I don't think Weasley is that bad these days, but he is certainly a bit trigger happy. Especially where I am concerned.

Granger, however, was not entirely unprepared for the situation. She urged me to join the Ministry, stating a need for an inside agent, and predicted the coming events with alarming accuracy. She handed over an enchanted Galleon as a means of emergency communication, told me she would contact me in a few months, and went into hiding with Weasley to set up the resistance movement. Within days, she was proven right, as former Order members and Death Eaters alike were hauled en masse to Azkaban. That should provide some interesting conversations around the prison dinner tables.

Finding a job in the Ministry turned out to be easy, as I barely had time to consider my future before an owl from the newly appointed Minister Umbridge arrived, summons in beak. As it transpired, I hardly had a choice. The mass arrests left plenty of key positions unmanned, and my appointment to the Muggleborn Control Committee was less an offer than an order.

My mother and I sold the manor, she faffed off to old school friends in Norway before the Ministry could hatch a plan to implicate her in any sordid activities, and I found an apartment on the very edge of the Wizarding District in London, doing my best to make it easy for Granger to get in touch.

\---

I smile briefly to myself as I examine the organisational chart on the wall. Had I not switched sides already, Umbridge's simpering manner as she gave me no say in my own future would surely have pushed me in that direction. I am nevertheless happy that some people – the only ones who count to me these days – know that my decision was based on logic, not bitterness.

Outside, it is getting darker. I pick up Granger’s parchment to read her instructions, and to find out if magical sources of light are allowed, or if I will have to sleep through the nights like a normal person. I scan through the list, making mental notes of her tasks for me the coming days, and find a note to limit myself to a small number of regular, low-level household spells and charms – no major transfigurations, and absolutely no power spikes unless there is a critical emergency. I wonder briefly what she would accept as an emergency, short of government officials storming the place, but I have no problem with the rules. I conjure a couple of glow globes which bob merrily around the room, emitting a pleasant, warm light. They will hold for a few days, and will be easy to adjust when needed.

I return to the parchment as I check on the potion. Time for the re-boil and adding the boom berries. Stirring and reading simultaneously, I realise the Ministry files were expected to take up more of my time. I decide to save the remainder of the files for tomorrow, as I will probably be bored out of my mind without anything to do, and I don’t want to be climbing the walls by the time Granger gets back. Better to ration it out.

I leave the potion to simmer while I inspect the kitchen for something edible. My cooking skills are unfortunately negligible, but it can hardly be more complicated than potions. I try for a noodle soup, tossing random vegetables into the boiling water. At least I am competent with spices, since I use them regularly in my potions to make them more palatable. I add some ginger root which I keep in my potions kit for uplifting purposes, figuring it can’t do any harm. Surprisingly, I actually manage to make something acceptable on the first try, although apple slices might not have been the best idea. What can I say, I like apples. It was worth a try.

After setting the potion to its second cooling, I decide to investigate the cupboard in the hallway. Half of it is filled with boxes of different sizes, many with miniaturised contents. I start at the bottom, summoning one of the bobbing globes to the darkened hallway. The first box contains schoolbooks and notes that are obviously Granger’s. I will have to be considerably more bored than now to go through them, but it’s always good to have the option. Several boxes are stuffed with clothes of all descriptions and states of repair, both muggle and wizarding. Another is barely half-full, and it looks to be the place for everything that doesn’t have a designated place: an old snitch, a shard of mirror, a silver device that looks like a muggle lighter, an actual muggle lighter, assorted necklaces and bangles, an empty perfume bottle with a flowery smell, and lots of general debris.

The next box is more promising – tightly packed with old muggle records. Getting acquainted with Granger’s bunch had required a lot of alcohol and a lot of music, and I had enjoyed both. Hopeful, I stick my entire upper body into the cupboard, and come out with a tiny gramophone in my hand.

When the gramophone is restored to its proper size, set on a table from the furniture box, I seem to recognize it as Professor Lupin’s from third year, and when I start it up, the music reminds me of him. I have fond memories of Lupin, he was a patient man, and sympathetic towards an obnoxious teenager who refused to reveal his boggart to the class. He was a good teacher, too, even though Professor Snape hated him for some reason. Well. Snape hated – or pretended to hate – almost everyone.

The music in the box is not familiar to me, but it appears to be mostly from the seventies and eighties, with jazz records that look to be older interspersed. For the time being, I am just happy with the randomly chosen record playing. The music reminds me of a simpler time, when I was young and stupid and knew I was right. Now, being older, I know that although I am intelligent, I am still stupid, and quite certain I have never been right about anything. At least I can try to do the right things. I clear up the kitchen, put the boxes back in the cupboard, and settle in the armchair with a glass of cheap red wine.

\---

Four days after Granger left, I have read all the files twice, and no longer need the chart on the wall for reference. I have a clear picture of the resistance organisation as well, and to my surprise it appears Granger is not merely high up in the organisation, she is the actual leader. From the files, it is obvious that several members are both older and more experienced – Kingsley Shacklebolt for one – and yet they still defer to a girl who was eighteen when the organisation started up. I wonder how many of them really knows her identity. It is not really surprising to see how isolated Darling is from the rest of them, but I nevertheless spare him an almost sympathetic thought. Personal resentment aside, I know a few things about being isolated.

The organisation is much larger than I thought, with many names I do not recognise, while others are very familiar. I would never have suspected my former housemate Blaise, for one. He had remained neutral throughout the war, and I had thought he still did. Yet there he is in the files, a central source of information on higher social circles. I am torn between indignation and laughing outright, remembering some of our interactions while he must have been undercover. Granger apparently trusted me less than I thought, in the beginning, and my regard for her goes up another couple of notches.

Sources within the Ministry are limited after I left, but I am pleased to find my old girlfriend Pansy among them. Always one to cover all her bases, that one. I am mildly surprised to see her share contact information with Padma Patil – there had not even been a rumour about them at the Ministry, and Padma had always struck me as altogether too proper.

I listen to The Kinks while I filter the potion, so it will be ready for Granger when she comes back. Afterwards, I try to make onion soup, experiment a bit with the oven to make the cheese melt, and am quite happy with the result. I celebrate by reading a muggle novel about wizards living on a flat world and end up enjoying it to a surprising degree.

Well into my third glass of wine, I realise that my own position in the resistance has been a lot higher than I thought. I wonder if Granger remaining my personal contact is significant, but there is no way to know until I can talk to her. And she is getting late.

\---

Seven days in, I have listened to all the records, read all the files four times, read all the books (some of them twice), and am halfway through Granger’s school notes. This is getting worrying.

\---

On the tenth day, I am out of wine and start on the whiskey.

\---

Granger has been gone two weeks, and most of the walls are covered with charts and notes. The files are all embedded in my brain. I have started working on modifications to my old parchment to be able to contact Weasley. I am no longer worried, I am desperate. I have barely slept for the last three days, living on apples and whiskey. Julie London is on repeat. 

I am not entirely sure why her absence affects me this much. She has been delayed before, but I have a nagging feeling something is wrong.

\---

I have finally fallen asleep in my chair when she stumbles in, clothes ripped and hands bleeding.


	4. She Came In Through the Bathroom Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione returns. Planning commences.

“Shit,” I say, slightly drunk and very dishevelled. “Shit, shit, _shit.”_

“Shut up and raise the wards,” she hisses, staggering towards the sofa. I concentrate with a massive effort of will and weave the wards tightly in place, no loopholes. Even Creampuff couldn’t get past them. I fall to my knees in front of her, accio the dittany from the kitchen, and start stripping her off. She casts a silent sobering charm on me as I succeed in ripping off her shredded shirt and see a long, angry laceration along her left-side ribs. A couple of the ribs are cut straight through as well, and there’s a matching cut slashing the inside of her arm open. Some kind of slicing curse, no doubt. This will leave a scar, no matter what I do, but the dittany will at least close it up. I can whip up some Skele-Gro in a couple of hours for her ribs, but she will have to tolerate the pain until then. 

She is entirely silent and still while I cleanse her skin and close up her wounds, and I would have thought her unconscious if she had not fastened her gaze on me, blinking slowly. Having done all I can for the moment on her torso, I dab a generous amount of dittany on her hands. Just bruises here, luckily; visible scarring would make disguises more difficult. After examining her head – no damage, just dirt and mud and someone else’s blood in her hair – I slice her jeans open to check her legs. Her hip has a darkening bruise, probably from falling, and her ankle looks twisted. It’s not broken, but I will adjust the potion to tighten her sinews as well. I rip her shirt into strips, sterilise them, and bind her ribs and ankle tightly before sitting back on my heels. Only then do I realise I have mentally dropped back to the war, mechanically fixing injuries in the most efficient way possible. The last ribs I bound were my father’s.

I blink at her, adjusting back to reality. 

“No shower for you yet, the dittany will have to work for a few hours to minimise scarring, but I can wash your hair if you like,” I offer. She looks a bit uncertain, but nods. “First, the potion for your throat, then I’ll set the Skele-Gro to boil, then your hair.” She cringes a bit at the thought of the bone-mending potion, but nods again. I suddenly realise she is stark naked, barring the bandages on her ribs and ankle, and I reach for my dressing gown, carelessly tossed on the armchair. As I go to get the throat potion, I briefly wonder if she has successfully remained silent for all this time. She used to talk incessantly, and for the schooldays Granger, silence would undoubtedly have been intolerable. I also wonder what has happened and where she has been, but that is certainly none of my business. If she wants me to know, she will tell me.

She throws the potion back as if it were a tequila shot, and seems surprised at the pleasant taste. I have always been good with potions, and I see no point in making them taste vile. She tries out her voice carefully. It is cracked and hoarse from not being used, but she improves quickly, mumbling passages that sound like they come from _Hogwarts, A History_ , while I start on the Skele-Gro. 

“If you talk a lot, at a low volume, the healing will be quicker,” I tell her. “Your voice box needs to be reactivated.” She clears her throat carefully, and when she speaks, her voice is lower in register than it used to be, but it suits her. 

“I went to see Darling,” she tells me as we head to the bathroom. “I try to go a couple of times a year, to keep him updated.”

“Still in Salem? How is he holding up?”

“Better than ever, actually. I think he’s finally settled in. He has started teaching there.” That, I can actually imagine. She tells me a bit about the visit, which only lasted a couple of days. “He sends his regards,” she claims. 

“A likely story,” I snort, trying to untangle her hair. This feels strangely, and a bit uncomfortably, intimate. 

Apparently, after Salem, she had to help out with a massive influx of refugees to the Bucharest house. There turned out to be a Ministry infiltrator among them, and she had to make a run for it after disposing of him, missing her backup portkey. 

She does not mention how she got wounded, and I don’t want to push her. It takes three shampooings to get all the dirt out from her hair, and when I massage the conditioner in, she falls asleep. She must be dead on her feet, but she really should be more careful. Still, I am pleased by her trust in me. I rinse out her hair, squeeze out as much water as possible, and braid it before shaking her shoulder carefully. She is instantly awake and on her feet. 

She settles at the kitchen table with a cup of tea while I try to make chicken soup, and tells me about setting up the training unit, back in the early days. This was when she had just split up with Weasley, and working together on that first mission had been awkward. 

I ladle up the soup, which is acceptable, if far from excellent. We eat in silence, and then I feel something shift. She looks me straight in the eye, as if saying _Go on then_ , and I tentatively poke a tendril at her mind. _Hello_ , she says clearly. I am impressed, and let it show. _You have been practicing._ She flashes a series of images at me in quick succession, tinged with an edge of satisfaction. I see glimpses of her visit in Salem, some trouble at the Spanish border she has not bothered to mention, the Ministry spy, whom I do not recognise, and Luna’s smiling face. Then she stops, and forms the words _Thank you._

“You’re tired,” I say, and she nods. “It will get easier, but I am very impressed.” My smile is broad and easy; hers is hesitant, but devoid of her usual sarcasm. I suddenly feel calmer than I have in months. She is back, and we are both safe.

\---

She shouldn’t climb the ladder before her ribs are healed, so I make up a bed for her on the floor using a rolled-up mattress from the cupboard. She drinks the Skele-Gro obediently, if with a grimace, and I pour a tiny amount of sleeping draught down her throat to spare her the pain of re-growing bones overnight. I settle down in the nest and sleep properly for the first time in days.

\---

When I wake up, it is to the smell of frying bacon and the sound of The Clash, Granger singing along off key to _Spanish Bombs_ in the kitchen. After days of softly melancholic jazz, punk rock is more refreshing than a cold shower. Mmm, shower. I stumble inelegantly down the ladder, and Granger’s slightly mocking laughter follows me into the bathroom. She seems happier than I’ve seen her in years, and I wonder if I might have overdone the rowanberry extract in the throat potion. Oh well, she could do with a slight bout of euphoria. 

During breakfast, I tell her she will have to stay put for a while. I am worried about the ribs – that kind of slicing can easily make them more fragile than a regular break would. This means people will have to come to her, which probably is for the better anyway, as there is still what to do with me to figure out. I wonder if all the section leaders will come, and where they will sleep if that’s the case. Granger’s meetings tend to stretch over a few days.

She ambles over to my scribbles on the wall, taking particular interest in the chart of the real structure of the Ministry I drew up after my first readthrough. I have only made minor corrections since then, having taken more time with our own organisation. Those notes will probably have to be removed from the wall, as I don’t think any of them should that much about everyone else. She concentrates on the Ministry chart for some minutes.

“This is absolutely brilliant, Malfoy.” She sounds impressed. “I have gone over the majority of these files, but I have never seen these connections.” She points to the faint lines between Robards in the Aurors, Yaxley in the Minister’s Office and Selwyn in Transportation. “But when I see it like this, it’s so _obvious_. Between them, they control the whole Ministry, and by extension, the whole wizarding community. It didn’t occur to me that Umbridge is a mere figurehead. We have to take this into account, and revise our strategies. You are _brilliant_.” I start to feel a bit self-conscious.

“Knowing them all personally, as well as the inside gossip, helps a lot,” I try to explain. I have no wish to show her up if the should prove touchy. “They were all Death Eaters, but never very public about it, and the Minister was all too happy to vouch for them.” She waves my protestations aside, looking only pleased. Perhaps she has no personal pride in this after all.

“You’re right about the rest, though,” she muses, “the full information on the resistance should not go beyond the two of us. Basic security, dividing into cells. The division leaders all know each other, of course, but no details about other units.” I start vanishing the charts and notes, all of it safely locked away in my mind, compressed and ready to bring up at a moment’s notice.

“I think I’ll call them all in for a meeting,” she decides. “A week should be sufficient for them all to get here, and we’ll have time to define a new structure. Perhaps Padma and Pansy could take a more active role …” She continues mumbling to herself, and eventually takes out quill and parchment to hover beside her, the quill jotting down notes at intervals. It is quite an impressive bit of wandless magic, for what little attention she gives it. I decide to clean up after breakfast, and put the kettle on for when she has finished her thinking. 

\---

I am changing the record when her eyes focus, and we settle at the kitchen table to plan. Her first priority is pushing one of our Ministry girls higher in ranks, to secure intel. Of the two, I think Padma is in the best position to make the move, as well as the least likely to be suspected of any connection with me. I have no idea how she plans to make the move, but I am not likely to be involved. Padma has never taken to me – not that that should matter, but it usually does, for most people. 

“I am glad you found the record player,” she goes off on a tangent. “Your aunt Andromeda gave it to me when she left the country with Teddy. It used to belong to Remus. Professor Lupin.” 

“Do you know where they went?” I ask. I hadn’t realised she knew my aunt, whom I have never met myself.

“Norway, I think,” she replies. “Old school friends. Teddy is going to Durmstrang, apparently.” The old school friends are most likely the same as my mother’s. I wonder if they ever planned to meet up, and if not, how it has worked out. I wish I could talk to my mother. I haven’t seen her since I started work in the Ministry, years ago, and I miss her. Our letters have been few and far between, for safety purposes. It feels a little traitorous to give away her whereabouts, but I tell Granger anyway, and she promises to try and take me when she next goes to visit Andromeda. 

“Were the records Professor Lupin’s as well?” I ask.

“No, they were my father’s. This was one of his favourite songs.” She tilts her head as the words _Sunday's on the phone to Monday_ , which make no sense at all, spread through the room. She looks uncharacteristically sad. “You know what I did. And the box of records was the only thing of theirs I brought with me. I carried it around in my beaded bag for years. I didn’t have the opportunity to even listen to them until I got this place, a few years back.”

She shakes her head, as if to clear away her memories, and we get back to our strategies and our tea.


	5. Cabin Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Working on legilimency and wanting to go outside.
> 
> This is a short one, but the next will be longer. Promise!

“We should work on my legilimency,” Granger states decisively over dinner. Apparently, this is not up for discussion, but I give it a shot anyway.

“You should be resting,” I tell her. She looks fine, though. The problem is, I suspect she will never be very good at it. She is subtle and disciplined, yes, and some things can be done by brute force, but I am well aware that what she wants to explore is my unique brand of legilimency. And that is another matter. I have a natural ability for this, honed and polished for years, out of necessity, and the way I can enter another mind unnoticed, without needing eye contact or touch, is not entirely normal.

“Nonsense,” she brushes me off. “I know you don’t think I can do it,” she continues, and apparently my fragile control over my own body language has eluded me once again. “But I want to see how far I can take it, and what limitations there are. I am adept at the Ammoneo charm, so I don’t need to slip in ideas, the way you do.” As always, she has thought it through, and as always, I relent.

We sit cross-legged on her mattress, facing each other, eyes open and hands on each other’s cheeks this time, to facilitate as much as possible. I stretch slowly into her mind, in order to show her what I’m doing, and then I retreat. Her mind remains open, shields down, but she can’t reach out. I repeat a couple of times with the same results, and I see droplets of sweat forming on her forehead from the exertion. Time to try a different tactic. When I go back in, I carefully take hold of a tendril of her mind, and she gasps in spite of my carefulness. As I slowly drag her into my own mind, I can see she finds it troubling and uncomfortable, even if it is not exactly painful. I release her after a few seconds, and she flops onto her back, breathing heavily. I let her be, and put on the kettle.

From the kitchen, I can still sense her mind, wide open, and I carefully poke at her with a feeling of concern. She pushes me out effortlessly, so her occlumency skills are apparently improving. I have a feeling she will be more adept at that, as privacy comes naturally to her. Contrary to popular belief, occlumency skills do not necessarily go hand in hand with legilimency, though.

“Again,” she says, sitting up as I bring her her tea.

“Absolutely not,” I reply, and this time I will not give in. “You need to relax. Besides, we are out of wine. This is a serious matter. You can’t walk far yet, and I can’t use disillusionment for shopping. Why don’t you put your considerable mental powers to work on _that_ problem, while I make a shopping list.” She snorts, but doesn’t push it.

\---

After two days, I squeeze her ribs and judge her able to make it to the store and back. I meet her at the bottom of the stairs to carry the bags up, and the glimpse of fresh air and a world outside the flat makes me itch to go for a walk. _Not yet_ , I tell myself. We have not spotted any Ministry agents nearby, but if any are here, they will in all likelihood have charm detectors ready, and the risk is too much. Granger has tacked her communications parchment to the wall, and we have both read the reports coming in, currently listing me as number five on the Undesirables Wanted list.

Luckily, Granger has talked George Weasley into dragging his arse out of Scotland, and he will bring his disguise potion with him. I try not to think too hard about my encounters with the potion in its development stages, as Granger assures me it is now close to perfect. My platinum hair is recognisable from a distance, and the disguise potion has the advantage of lasting indeterminately. Also, I realise I am looking forward to seeing George again. It’s been a while.

I open a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape with anticipation, and sip my wine while Granger makes an omelette. We have been practicing her legilimency in half-hour intervals, and she remains unable to reach out on her own, though she no longer finds it uncomfortable to be pulled in. She is getting less tired from it as well. I poke at her to check how the food is coming along, and she effortlessly shows me what she is looking at.

“We’ll have George look at your parchment, too,” she says, not turning away from the pan. “You need to be able to communicate with everyone else.” I sense we will discuss my new role over dinner, but let my surprise divert me for a moment.

“He made those?” I ask. I had thought it was her, as they are similar to the Galleons I know she has charmed herself.

“Yes, the Protean charm doesn’t work so well on parchment, eats it away after a few exchanges,” she explains. “He is good with adaptations, and he handles communications now. The more peripheral members don’t have parchments, as they have no need to communicate with me directly, so they have small radios, and he broadcasts news for them every day. It’s clever, really – the radios catch the broadcast so they can listen to them later if they are busy when he sends it out. I think he got the idea from a muggle device.”

\---

While we eat, I observe her as she makes an agenda in her head. I know her tells too well to need legilimency by now, and I wonder briefly when we tuned into each other to such a degree. And also, why her company makes me feel so relaxed. She interrupts my musings by gathering her hair in a bun, a clear signal that she means business.

“We need to establish your leadership within the organisation,” she states, and I inhale a basil leaf. She does not bother to comment, but goes on over my coughing. “We will benefit from a more balanced view of the Ministry, and the operations could use a second pair of eyes …”

“You have lost the plot,” I manage to wheeze. “There is no way Creampuff will follow my lead, and Markinswell has never trusted me.”

“They will have to lump it,” she replies in her no-nonsense manner. “And Creampuff will come around, she is sensible.” I sincerely doubt that, although Granger is not usually given to optimism. At least there’s George. And Neville. And Luna. It could be worse.

\---

As the sky darkens, Granger starts drawing on the walls. Her hand is neat, but the structure looks unnecessarily complicated. I sip my wine and and listen to Charles Mingus, watching her progress. When she climbs up the ladder to the nest, I summon and brighten one of my globes before I start drawing a simpler version of her chart, outlining the communication structure of our organisation; more hierarchical, but also more efficient.

The record scratches to a halt while I compare the two charts, and, satisfied with my work, I look out at the skyline. The moon is up already, reminding me of Blaise. We used to sit in the Great Hall at night, back at Hogwarts, sharing cigarettes and a comfortable silence. I miss him

Unable to shrug off my somber mood, I climb up into the nest and curl up, back to back with Granger, letting her slow breathing comfort me.


	6. Disguise and Delusion

I am sitting at the kitchen table, nursing my cup of French tea (some spiced travesty of Granger’s) when an unholy racket from the hallway makes me jump. A curse and the sound of glass breaking reveals Granger’s surprise from the bathroom, and George’s voice floods in, accompanied by thumping on the door.

“Oi, you paranoid freaks! Let us in,” he yells. I can hear Neville’s muffled laughter and unsuccessful attempts to shut him up. Granger stomps out of the bathroom to lower the wards and open the door, and I can practically hear her scowl through the wall.

“Lovely to see you too, Hermione,” George drawls from the hallway. I can’t resist prodding at her mind, feeling her combined exasperation and amusement. She huffs and shoves at me, but does not shut me out, and the kitchen is abruptly filled with pure Weasley enthusiasm.

“Draco!” George yells happily, pulling me out of my chair and enveloping me in muscular arms. I get a mouthful of red hair and purple velvet before he looks me over. “You look like a wilted plant,” he states critically. “Time to get you some potion!” Neville laughs and pulls Granger over to the couch, settling in to observe. George produces a glass bottle from the lining of his jacket, and proceeds to look for shot glasses in the kitchen cupboards while I sink down on a cushion, handily summoned by Granger. I love George dearly, but the change of pace from my peaceful cohabitation with Granger is a bit brutal.

Neville snorts at my wary look, and Granger looks amused at my obvious discomfort when George returns, shot glasses and four bottles of London Pride in hand.

“It’s eleven in the morning,” Granger states, a hint of disapproval in her voice.

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” George and Neville chorus, and there is no way to stop my giggle from escaping. This is just like the old days.

“I’ll be a neutral observer, thanks,” Neville says, casually draping himself across the armrest, bottle of lager in hand. Granger nods agreement. George settles on the floor next to me and solemnly pours out two shots of a violently pink, slightly viscous liquid. I would have asked why he pours two, if I didn’t already know that George will do anything he thinks is fun, necessary or not. We clink our glasses and down our potions.

It tastes like nothing much at all, except perhaps a hint of cranberry, and the reaction on my skin is pleasant and slightly ticklish – nothing like the penetrating taste and violent reaction of Polyjuice potion. Neville and Granger give us two pairs of raised eyebrows.

George’s vibrant red hair has turned a luxurious auburn, falling around his face in gentle waves.  His jaw is slightly, but noticeably, more feminine, and his lips are suddenly pink and pouty. The only thing that remains unchanged are his eyes. Taken in at once, the result is surprisingly androgynous, and he looks like a very pretty boy of doubtful morals. He would be assaulted on the street if he were to go out like that.

“Impressive,” Granger murmurs, looking me carefully over, as if memorising my new features. George and I get up as one, rushing for the mirror in the bathroom. The results are very impressive indeed. My hair has turned a darker, more average nuance of blond, and my jaw sports a shade of even darker stubble. My eyes are the same grey as before, but darker lashes makes them look more icy. There is a dusting of freckles over my nose and cheekbones. It’s still me, but subtly different. I am surprised to like it. The person in the mirror definitely does not look like a wilted plant. A smirk, the one that used to be my default expression, appears on my lips, and all of a sudden, it seems a part of me that has been gone for too long is back again. George can’t seem to stop his giggling beside me. Tonight will be interesting.

\---

We gather around the chart on the wall. Neville is looking impressed, George slightly bored. I guess organisational structures are not everyone’s cup of tea. Or bottle of beer, as the case might be. George settles at the kitchen table to fiddle with my parchment while Granger and Neville discuss matters I now know by heart. Neville picks up on my fidgeting and briefly pops out to the hallway, returning with a plastic bag filled with my favourite pedestrian teabags. Granger snorts with laughter as I gleefully make a strong cuppa with just a splash of milk. Perfect.

The scene is strangely domestic – Granger and Neville in serious discussion, George muttering to himself as he makes adjustments, occasionally interrupted by a sip from his bottle, and me on the sofa, arms around my knees as I gaze out the window. I know Granger won’t approve of going outside alone in the middle of the day. Every other resident of this area seems to be at work, so I will either have to wait for one of the others to come with me to stand out less, or wait until after work hours. I hope for the former, as the impatience is curling around me like a particularly nasty strain of Devil’s Snare.

Neville is, thankfully, observant as always, and suggests a walk before lunch. George is immersed in his work and does not answer – nor will he, for several hours, if I know him, which I do. Granger seems hesitant, but accepts without argument, and Neville and I are bounding down the stairs like enthusiastic puppies before she can voice her concerns.

\---

The sunlight on my skin feels like being born again, or emerging from a muggle washing machine. Not that I have tried either, but there is nothing wrong with my imagination. I have to concentrate to keep a silly grin from my face, and Neville smiles at me, no doubt gauging my mood accurately despite my efforts.

We stop to pick up coffee in little cardboard cups, and afterwards settle on a bench in the park, just a couple of blocks away from the flat. Neville is a steady and silent presence beside me, seemingly content to observe me as I watch the doves cooing amongst themselves, digging in the grass with their stunted beaks.

“I never took you for an outdoorsy type,” Neville comments softly as we finish our coffees. “How long, exactly, have you been cooped up inside that place?” I shrug noncommittally.

“Not enjoying battling with the wilds is not the same as being unable to appreciate some fresh air every once in a while, you know,” I answer, his smile reflecting mine as we both remember a disastrous fishing trip some years back. We get up in wordless agreement, and stroll leisurely through the park.

\---

Back at the flat, George is stretched out on Granger’s mattress, napping. Granger herself is humming tunelessly along to Thelonious Monk by the stove, cooking something that smells comforting. I check briefly through her eyes. Leek and potato soup, with lots of fresh parsley. She has been out shopping. I can feel her smile as she speaks without turning.

“Trust you to show up when the food is ready,” she says, and Neville looks a bit disconcerted. We were very quiet coming in, after all. He stumbles as he heads into the kitchen, looking like a parody of a Frenchman with an extremely long baguette under one arm and a braid of garlic slung over one shoulder. Disappointingly, Granger does not laugh, merely raises her eyebrow. She indicates with a toss of her head that I should set the table, and Neville goes over to George to poke him awake with his foot.

The soup is delicious, surprisingly. Granger is good at breakfast, but has been below par at nearly every other meal so far. George is cleaning out the bottom of the pan with a torn-off piece of baguette when she introduces the subject of my new role in the organisation. George huffs and nods, clearly more concerned with not missing a drop of the soup. Neville, on the other hand, looks uncomfortable.

“You know we trust him,” he addresses Granger, and she nods. “But some of the others, well …” I cringe, but George interrupts.

“Really, Draco’s a big boy, he can handle it,” he says, refocusing on the pan. Apparently, a bit of bread has fallen off, and he is trying to capture it with a piece of crust. It has gone soggy, and even though he finally succeeds, it is flopping sadly in his grip. I prefer looking at his soup battle rather than at Neville, who I can tell is looking painfully earnest.

“Markinswell,” he says, and didn’t I just know it. “Creampuff. Seamus. Bryony. Some of Ron’s French crowd. I’m not even sure about Ron, to be honest.” I can feel my happiness from earlier today drain away. It’s worse than I thought.

“I’ve talked to Ron,” Granger says, voice devoid of inflection. I can’t quite identify the discomfort I feel at that. She hasn’t left the flat except for the shopping, and we have been as good as attached by the hip since she came back. She talked to him before she talked to me.

“Untwist your knickers, ice prince,” George says, smirking at me. Granger’s eyes widen a fraction, and her mind is loud with an _Oh!_ of surprise. I feel clueless, not quite knowing what’s going on, and her hastening to explain only makes me feel worse.

“His crew will follow his lead,” she states decisively, and I know she is right. “Bryony, for all her faults,” – George sniggers, but she ignores him – “Bryony is smart, and will see reason. And Creampuff is … sensible.” At that George laughs outright, and my own smile is sneaking back.

“I know her better than you,” George challenges, and Granger looks annoyed, but doesn’t protest. “Sensible is not the word I would use. Hotheaded, perhaps. Rash. Emotional.”

“Strong. Loyal. Passionate,” Neville counters. He has always had a soft spot for her. “She’ll come around.” George clearly shares my doubts, which, weirdly, makes me feel a lot better. Getting Ron Weasley firmly on board was merely sensible, no cause for feeling betrayed. I bury my discomfort deep.

\---

As the sky outside darkens and the searchlight beams move shadows across the floor, George is nearly skipping. Granger and Neville are calmer, but clearly eager to hit the clubs. Or rather, the club. There is only one wizarding club in the area that is not regularly raided by the local auror force, and luckily, it is George’s favourite. Something about a girl he met there a few years back, apparently. I will not allow Granger to apparate yet, as any unexpected jolting could crack her ribs again all too easily, so nearby it is, despite the risk.

Talking of risks, George’s provocative appearance is clearly one of them. He has, for reasons best known to himself, elected to wear glittery eyeshadow and one of my pristine white shirts, several sizes too small. Neville has not bothered to change neither clothes nor appearance, and I can see why. He does have a certain bad-boy appeal in his worn leather jacket.

Granger looks … surprising. Her skirt is definitely on the skimpy side, and her top is sequined, a far cry from the oversized shirts and scruffy jeans I have gotten used to. But her heavy eye makeup and wild hair is what really make a difference. Suddenly, she looks like she never does anything more sensible than drinking straight vodkas in seedy bars. She balances confidently on spindly heels, hand clutching her beaded bag as if it merely contains cash and lipstick, not the arsenal of potions, weapons and books she always carries around. There might be lipstick in there as well, I suppose. I never considered it before.

I slick my hair back in a more casual style than I used to, George practically bouncing beside me.

“Really, George,” Granger comments drily, “One would think there were no alcohol in all of Scotland.”

\---

The bar is indeed seedy, muggle-repelling charms heavy on the door and the air heavy with smoke and glamours. Granger and I find a table while Neville muscles his way to the bar and George dives into the dancing crowd. All my senses are assaulted by this place, and I feel thoroughly discomfited. Granger, on the other hand, looks serene and completely at home in this setting, and I wonder if she really relaxes or if she is just that good at masking her emotions. This woman has seemingly nothing in common with the one I’ve spent all my time the last weeks with.

Neville returns laden down with drinks, and I trust him not to have bought anything too strange. Granger opts for straight vodka, just what she looks like she’d prefer at the moment, while I cling to the familiarity of a gin and tonic. George stops by briefly to grab a fruity concoction with a little umbrella in it, while Neville seems content with beer.

As the hours slither away, I watch George dancing and flirting his way through the crowd, keeping my eye on potential threats to his non-existing virtue. He is obviously happy with the attention. Neville, on the other hand, looks uncomfortable with the two young witches plastering themselves to his sides. It seems the bad boy look has more of an effect than he has foreseen. Granger has copied my vintage Malfoy glare, and icy staring is as efficient a repellant as ever. We are quite undisturbed at our table as the light brightens and the sounds are dimmed around us, revealing quiet pops of apparition.

 _Aurors_ , she hisses mentally, and I touch minds with Neville and George in warning before grabbing her tightly and hurling back to the flat. Her ribs make an audible _crack_ on impact, and when I open my eyes, George is in a heap on the floor, shirtless. Neville is nowhere to be seen.


	7. Meeting the Family

The air in the room is thick with tension. George has refused a sobering charm for some reason known only to himself, but he looks incredibly focused trying to track Neville through his communications Galleon. The fact that Granger has repeatedly told him it's not possible does not deter him in the slightest.

Granger herself is sitting stiffly on the sofa, waiting for another portion of Skele-Gro. The impact of the apparition cracked her sliced ribs, and the force I used to pull us out did not help at all. I can feel her impatience in my own head. Underneath is a simmering anxiety she refuses to acknowledge, even to herself. I think of how to break it to her that the connection between our minds seems to have fused. I don't even have to concentrate to feel her emotions. She is not going to like this.

I keep stirring the potion while George curses steadily under his breath. He has twisted his longer-than-usual hair up into a bun, and combined with the remains of his glittery makeup it makes him look like a demented hipster.

The potion needs to simmer in peace for a while, so I pour two glasses of the cheap red and settle on the sofa next to Granger. Reaching out to her mentally, I open as wide as I am able and pull her in gradually. It may be easier to show than to tell, and putting myself in a position as vulnerable as hers is only fair. Her eyes widen briefly, and then her expression pulls tight. She tries to withdraw, harshly, and the tension makes me hiss. I vaguely register George looking up for a moment before I close my eyes.

_I don't know how this happened, I promise_ , I try to tell her. Her skepticism is very apparent, but she at least stops pulling at my mind. Forcing myself to relax, I can feel her examining my emotions from the inside. While I show her what the newly forged connection looks like from my end, she flashes images rapidly to me, mainly of the last couple of hours in the club, and mainly of Neville. She saw him when I grabbed her, being pulled towards the exit by the two girls. One can only hope it was exactly what it looked like, and not undercover Aurors.

She seems relatively calm after a while, so I let her go, opening my eyes. I drain my glass and slump further down on the sofa. The advantages of the mental connection are obvious, and of course Granger can see them as well. Equally obvious is our mutual discomfiture with having her emotions on display. She is easily the most private and careful person I know, and the betrayals in her past must make it doubly difficult for her. I can't imagine she would like to have that kind of connection with anyone, least of all with a former Death Eater. I am not even aware of my hand moving to cover the mark on my arm.

"Stop it." Granger's voice is still deeper than expected, and I startle a bit. "You always grab your arm when you feel bad about something. And there’s no need. I know it wasn't intentional." Oh, for the love of Circe. How can I have missed such a major tell? I feel increasingly frustrated. My downward spiral is interrupted by George clearing his throat.

"You people know you are getting kind of creepy, yeah? With all the half conversations starting out of nowhere and all that, I mean, really." He looks at me knowingly, and I am suddenly aware that, yes, he absolutely knows how that works, and bollocks, it is clearly very obvious. Granger is mystified, but lets it go as George continues. "And impossible as it is, I have located Neville."  Granger's mouth drops open, and George smirks. I leave them to it and head over to the Skele-Gro, still simmering on the stove. It is nearly ready - only the final filtering and the re-boil to go before the cooling.

While I work, I listen half-heartedly to their discussion, all the while aware of Granger's flickering emotions. Both she and George seem relatively certain Neville is safe, as he is somewhere in the wizarding district and not hauled in for interrogation. I privately guess he is having a more enjoyable night than either of us - especially Granger, who is due her second round of re-growing bones in one week.

\---

The morning light manages to be both exceedingly bright and depressingly grey at the same time when I am woken by the very quiet squeak of the door. Neville slips through unobtrusively, looking extremely dishevelled. I watch him through slitted eyelids as he sinks down on the sofa. Granger is back on the mattress on the floor, and I am curled around George’s larger form in the nest. I wonder again how we will manage when the rest all get here. Which will be today. Oh God. I snuggle tighter around George, thankful for another few hours of oblivion as I sink back into sleep.

The next time I wake, it is to the tune of Granger’s vibrating emotions. She is sitting on her mattress, staring at Neville lying halfway off the sofa, torn between relief, exasperation and hilarity. I am amazed he hasn’t woken up from the power of her stare. George makes snuffling noises as I twist out of the sheets, vaulting down to the floor. I reach out a hand to Granger to pull her to her feet, and we wordlessly agree to start on breakfast. Definite advantages.

As always, both George and Neville are easily roused by the smell of frying eggs and bacon, and breakfast is spent listening to George’s interrogation of Neville’s nightly adventures. They certainly sound like fun.

I have just come out of the shower when I feel a familiar push on the wards. I sigh as I open up to Creampuff.

She seems less than pleased to see me, unsurprisingly, and moves past me to greet the others. Her brother embraces her and twirls her around, while Neville looks at her admiringly. It’s a good thing he’s not pining any longer, soft spot or not. She is far too independent for them to be a good fit.

Granger pulls her into the kitchen to update her on recent events. Creampuff is not normally in close contact with the rest of the organisation, being significantly more radical in her approach than the rest of us. She has been stationed somewhere in Greece with Finnegan and his team, agitating for “direct action” as she calls it. Or “terrorism”, as others would call it. Not that I necessarily disagree with her methods; sometimes her way is the only way, but she does not always stop to consider the far-reaching consequences. As such, I have gone against her on more than one occasion, and Granger has supported me. This has not improved her feelings towards me in the slightest.

I shamelessly reach out to listen in on their conversation, momentarily catching George’s eyes from where I still stand in the hallway. He shakes his head, but does not comment. A wave of protectiveness from Granger washes over me, and I am both touched and a bit exasperated. I can feel she is aware of my presence, but she ignores it.

“I don’t know why you still have a problem with him,” I hear her say. “He has been on our side for years. And for better reasons than most of us, I might add.”

Creampuff’s pique is plain on her freckled face. Her emotions have always been close to the surface. She has cut her hair since I saw her last; it is very short in the back, and a long fringe hangs over her left eye. She tosses it back with a huff.

“Really? Better reasons? Thanks a lot, my whole family has been targeted, I should think that would be an excellent reason for anyone,” she hisses. Granger makes an abortive motion with her hands, but Creampuff continues. “It’s not that I don’t trust him. I do.” I feel my eyebrows reaching towards my hairline. “I don’t usually agree with him, but I trust him. As much as I trust anyone. I just don’t like him very much.” I can feel the amusement in Granger as I pull hastily back and make a tactical retreat to the bathroom. I really need to put on some clothes before facing a Creampuff who trusts me. I can hardly believe it.

\---

I refrain from listening in on any more conversations as the others arrive throughout the day. Creampuff ignores me. Weasley - Ron - slaps me on the back, slightly awkwardly. Markinswell is openly disdainful, and looks a bit put out when Luna is positively delighted to see me. Céleste is quiet and respectful towards everyone, and blushes prettily at George’s exaggerated wink. Darlington-Whit, so Britishly gentleman-of-leisure that it nears caricature, strolls in, dandy-like. You would nearly expect him to say “What ho” like something out of Wodehouse.

“What ho, what ho, Draco, old boy,” he beams, and it takes serious effort to not break down in giggles. I am very careful to avoid the eyes of George and Neville, but I can feel their bubbling amusement, damn the both of them.

“Good to see you, Hollis,” I reply, sliding my good manners on like a cape. He is an acquaintance of Blaise’s, and I’m pleased to hear news of my oldest friend, even though his role in the resistance is known to very few - possibly only myself and Granger. Blaise is, of course, doing well. He always is. He always lands on his feet, like a giant cat. I learn that his import/export business is now among the very few who still has the Ministry’s favour, and he is able to conduct his affairs as he pleases. He has no doubt put forth a significant slice of his inheritance in order to be able to do so, but with the information I now possess, I realise what an enormous advantage that could be. I store the news safely away.

Donovan is the last to arrive, her hair flattened and her jacket dark with moisture on the shoulders from rain. I look out the window. It is not raining.

With everyone present, Granger gestures for us to sit down by the kitchen table, now enlarged and laden with steaming pots of tea and mismatched cups. She remains standing while everyone else sits down.

“There is every reason to believe that more of us will have the trace put on us shortly. Creampuff has been targeted for years, and we should rename the rest of us who are on the Wanted list.” She slides around the table and puts her hand on Neville’s shoulder first. “Breaker,” she states, and he grins at her. She moves to George. “Tinker.” He laughs out loud. “Claymore,” she says, hand on Ron’s shoulder. When she reaches Luna, they chorus “Matron.” This time, I’m the one who laughs, and Luna gives me her broadest smile. Granger moves to stand right behind me before she lays both hands on my shoulders. “Archive.” She sits down, and I stand up to put my hands on her shoulders in turn. She cocks her head. “Spider,” I say clearly. I can feel her approval, but the reactions of the others are mixed, to say the least. She pays no mind to the tension in the room, and moves swiftly on.

“We need to divide the leadership of the organisation.” She ignores the indrawn breaths from everyone in the room, myself included. I did not expect her to do this so soon, and I wonder if it is a wise move. “Archive will be in command, parallel with me. All other sections will continue as is, with the exception of the Paris branch, where Céleste takes over after Léon. Reports.” She gestures at Weasley - Ron - Claymore. This is getting complicated.

Ron is brief and to the point when assessing the new recruits, and outlines the changes in the basic training over the last couple of months. He is always fine-tuning his programme  - sometimes, I think his ambition is to have every new recruit an accomplished fighter within two weeks of bootcamp. And I have to admit (if a bit grudgingly) that if anyone can succeed in that endeavour, it will be him. Him and that girlfriend of his. I don’t like her. She is too loud, too brazen, too bubbly - too much of everything, really. Unfortunately, she also has a tactical mind to rival his, so we’ll have to keep her. I surface from my thoughts when Céleste’s soft murmur interrupts him.

“Not everyone is a natural fighter,” she states, but her tone makes it sound like a suggestion. “We are perhaps missing opportunities to recruit more people for … other activities?” Her glance at Donovan is not subtle at all, but she somehow manages to make it seem so. I wonder about Céleste. She seems demure, until the moment she is very much not.

The discussion turns to possible ways of evaluating recruits as early as Luna’s initial safehouse in Bucharest, something she does not approve of, until Granger turns them back to reporting with a firm hand.

\---

I am sitting on the floor with my back to the wall and my eyes closed, compressing memories, when a hand touches me on the shoulder. Donovan’s hands are always cold, as is her general manner. I don’t think it’s anything personal - as far as I know, she has not made any close friends. When I peer up at her standing above me, she merely jerks her head, indicating the hallway.

“Archive,” she says, leaning against the cupboard. “Does that mean what I think it means?” I give her a shrug, which she interprets correctly. At least I imagine there is a hint of approval in her dark eyes.

“Then this is for you.” She hands me a small vial, obviously containing memories.

“I can just … you know.” I wave my hand vaguely at her forehead.

“I don’t want them.” She looks completely frozen over for a moment. She has extracted them as completely as she is able to, then. I wonder what could possibly make her aura feel even colder than it usually does, but I wordlessly pocket the vial. Her relief is the most obvious emotion I have ever seen on her. Did she think I would refuse to take them? There is a hint of warmth in the line of her shoulders as she turns back toward the others.

“You’ll do,” she says, and moves over to Céleste.

_Well, that was weird_ , I tell myself, leaning heavily against the wall. This day has been exhausting, and it’s far from over. To me, there was little actual news in the reports, but there is obviously too little contact between the team leaders. Some weeks earlier, Céleste’s team had been surprised completely by a group of Luna’s refugees, a situation which could easily have gone a lot worse. George went distinctly white around the nostrils when they figured out the parchment message had been delayed by several hours, for no apparent reason.

The smell of something delicious draws me toward the kitchen, where Neville is making some kind of stew with Luna assisting. I can smell bay leaf and rosemary mingling with seared lamb, and I am very nearly drooling. Luna turns and laughs at me.

“It’s at least half an hour to go,” she says, handing me a torn-off piece of bread. She is scrubbing potatoes by hand, humming to herself. I watch them working in perfect synchronisation for a while before I turn back toward the others.

They have all settled into smaller groups. Donovan and Céleste are locked in an intense, but friendly-looking conversation. George, Ron and Darlington-Whit are lounging on the sofa, no doubt retelling exaggerated versions of past adventures. Markinswell has been cornered by Granger and Creampuff, who are both talking earnestly at him. He does not look happy.

\---

Dinner is loud and boisterous, largely due to the amount of Weasleys in the room. The part of the meeting following dinner is even louder, as Granger and Ron clash again. They nearly always do, and the outcome is usually a good solution to whatever problem they’re on about, so we all just leave them to it. Granger appears both exasperated and comforted by their ritual. She never seems to have just one emotion at a time.

When the meeting draws to a close for the day, Ron clasps her shoulder and slips out, no doubt popping back to Bryony for the night. I settle in the nest along with Neville and Luna, the three of us so comfortable with each other that there is no discussion about me ending up in the middle. Markinswell joins George and Darlington-Whit around the kitchen table for whiskeys, Céleste and Donovan curl up tightly on separate ends on the sofa, and Creampuff and Granger share the mattress. I can hear their whispered conversation as I drift off to sleep, Luna’s back against mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooo boy. This chapter took a really long time to churn out - real life intervened, sorry about that. Back on track now! A new backstory installment from butnotdrowning is next.


End file.
